


Drowning In the Rising Tide

by agent_orange



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hunters & Hunting, Incest, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Research, Teasing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Jess can fight and not just stitch them up when they're hurt and help them research, Dean's decisions often end up thrown to the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning In the Rising Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to coyotesuspect for looking it over and to auroraprimavera for the lightning quick beta.

Dean's been to three libraries in two days, trying to dig up whatever he can find on unhcegilas. There have been some disappearances in the Black Hills; Sam should be the one doing the research, but he's been on the phone pretty much all day yesterday and today.

He wants to just wipe down the motel room, fill up on gas, and _go_. They're good at figuring out the details on the spot once they have an idea of what they're doing, but Sam likes to plan ahead, have everything laid out and ready, and now that Jess can fight and not just stitch them up when they're hurt and help them research, Dean's decisions often end up thrown to the wind, like caution.

She must know that he's thinking about her, because she comes up behind him, resting her hand on the back of his neck. He can smell her, vanilla lotion and peppermint gum, sweet and cool and a much-needed break from the dusty pile of books making him sneeze every now and then.

"How's the research going?"

"Like crap," he sighs. He's itching to be on the road, tires rolling along on the highway, leaving Odessa and its stupid haunted houses behind.

"Sorry," Jess says. "But, hey, you'll figure out it when we get there, right?" Great. She's fucking _taunting_ him.

"I'm not the one who wanted to find out everything about this thing in the first place."

"True. Tough break, though; arguing with Sam is never fun. But the make-up sex? _Awesome_."

"I'll bet," he murmurs. Sam likes to sulk after a fight with Dean, or give him the bitchface. Jess doesn't get angry half as much as Sam (less temperamental, which makes Dean think that Sam actually _is_ the girl in that relationship, and in life), but when she does, she strips down to her sports bra and a pair of shorts, laces up her expensive-looking Nikes, and spends half an hour running around whatever neighborhood they're staying in. Sometimes Dean starts to think that it's not safe for her to be doing that, even with the training they've given her, but she might punch him in the face if he says that, so he doesn't.

She steps in closer, running her fingers through his hair, pulling away when they catch on the gelled-up spikes of it. "Gross."

"Quit your bitching. You leave hair in the sink all the time."

"So does Sam."

"Anyway," she breathes, and it seems like she's half-trying to sound like Marilyn Monroe, but Dean realizes that probably isn't the case. "I have an idea."

"About Sam's hair?" He thought it'd be a ploy to get Sam to throw out all his plaid shirts, or something equally stupid.

"No, his hair's a lost cause. It's about you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I want to fuck you," Jess whispers, her voice hot in his ear.

His dick twitches in his jeans, interested. "Here?" he asks, reaching for his fly anyway. He's fucked in weirder places, and it'd be kind of hot (okay, _really_ hot) to have Jess pushed up against the stacks, biting down into his shoulder to keep from moaning.

"No," she says, and the image in his head switches to Jess in the Impala, spread out on the backseat, trembling with want. "Not like that."

It hits Dean a few seconds later, what she meant, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. "Um," he says, because his brain can't come up with anything else.

"Okay, well, I think I found something, so I'm going to go check out the books." She slides her fingers along his neck, edges of her pink-painted nails scraping lightly over his skin.

Dean's really too stunned to say anything else. He's all worked up and hard and the librarian is staring at him disapprovingly. _Fuck_. She's cute, too--big, brown, almond-shaped eyes, what appear to be really awesome tits hidden under her cardigan, and hips accentuated by her tight pencil skirt, but he's already in over his head with Sam and Jess. He manages a weak smile, and crosses his legs uncomfortably, trying to will his hard-on away.

*

They end up making the trip to South Dakota, despite the fact that they don't really have any solid leads. When they stop for gas, Jess goes into the convenience store, and comes back out with two plastic bags full of food, and one of those disposable to-go coffee carriers. In the car, she rips open a pack of Tootsie Pops, peels the wrapper off a red one, and slides it into her mouth. "Dean," she says, and when he turns to look at her, he almost veers off the road, but she takes the wheel and steers them until it's back under his hands. She's moving the lollipop in and out of her mouth in slow, steady motions, sucking on it with loud slurps that make his blood run hot under his skin.

"Jesus, Sam," he says, more of a frustrated grunt than anything else. "Your girl's a tease."

Jess punches him in the arm, overwriting the arousal rushing through his veins, and he's glad for it. "What do you think this is, Dean, the 50s? I'm not anyone's _girl_."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, maybe trying to placate her, but he's already moved on to thinking about her pretty, pink lips wrapped around his cock.

*

The few witnesses that are willing to talk are nervous, distrusting of authority (Dean figures they have a right to be; years of teachers and books glossing over the treatment of Native Americans by the government flooding his memory), and since they've split up ("When was the last time you saw a cop with _two_ partners, Dean?" Sam had said), the interviews aren't exactly easy. Dean knows he's not the most sympathetic person, and apparently hot, leggy blondes aren't instantly well-liked by grief-stricken mothers.

Once they know that girls have been disappearing at night, ripped from their beds with a struggle, they leave as quickly as they can without being rude, peering at the windowsills for any sign of sulfur or scratch marks. There's nothing, though; he hopes Sam's been able to find something useful.

"It's okay, Dean," Jess tells him, and while he's a little weirded out by how well she already knows him, she's acting like she knows everything after only a handful of cases.

"You don't fucking know that," he growls. "We don't always—"

"It's okay," she repeats, softer this time, and kisses him, tits pressed against his chest; he can feel her nipples, hard through her cheap suit jacket.

"A-_hem_," Sam coughs, appearing from nowhere, always ruining the moment.

"Sorry," Dean says, and wipes his lips.

Jess just smirks, wraps an arm around Sam's waist, lets him get his tongue halfway down her throat before pulling away to say, "I thought you didn't like public displays of affection."

"Not when it's you," he replies, and it's so sweet it makes Dean want to vomit all over him.

*

It turns out that the "mysterious disappearances" aren't something they can take care of. There'd been some miscommunication between the reservation and the local police, and while they're still in town, the cops catch some guy washing blood off his hands in a gas station bathroom, and the dots connect themselves from there.

They haul ass out of Custer, always a little freaked out with the police around (especially after St. Louis; especially if there's been a murder). They've barely been on the road half an hour when Sam makes Dean pull over so he can piss, and Dean glances over at him just time to watch Sam get shoved into a tree. He grabs a sawed-off and shoots the thing full of rock salt, and it dissipates, but reappears a minute later and bangs Sam's head against the tree trunk. Dean unleashes another round on the ghost, then rushes to Sam, not caring that they didn't finish the job, because Sam's got a gash in his forehead that looks pretty deep.

He stitches Sam up in the backseat. When Sam comes to, he squeezes Dean's arm and grits his teeth, little grunts of pain making their way through every now and then. Jess speeds down the highway, faster than Dean normally drives when Sam's hurt. "It'll be okay," he says. "He's been through a lot worse."

He's not sure who he's trying to comfort.

*

Sam wakes them up with coffee and bagels from the café down the road, and he hands Dean a separate bag with two powdered sugar donuts. He polishes them off in a few bites. It's light and fluffy and he doesn't care about the sugar smeared on the edge of his lip—that is, until, Sam leans in and kisses Dean, wiping it away with his tongue.

"Mmf," Dean says, or tries to. Jess is cool with them..._touching_ and all, but Dean doesn't think she'll be too happy if they do it without her.

Sam pulls away, huffs an, "Okay, _fine_," and crosses the room to pound away at his laptop.

*

Jess makes Dean stop at this rundown little building on their way out of town, and it takes him a second to find the sign tucked away in a corner of the window.

"Wanna come with?" she asks. "It'll only take a few minutes."

"Nope," Dean says, turning up the radio. "I'm good."

"Suit yourself." She giggles, tugs Sam out of the car and into a kiss. "You're missing out, though."

He can see her hand firmly planted on Sam's ass, making the denim wrinkle more than it already has, and he tears open a bag of Cheetos. He sings along with the Pixies, spraying orange crumbs everywhere that he'll have to clean up later.

Sam and Jess emerge from the store almost half an hour later. Sam's shirt is buttoned wrong and there's a hickey forming on his neck; Jess's bra strap is hanging off her shoulder, her lips are swollen, and she's swinging a plastic bag that Dean half-wishes he could see the contents of, though he's pretty sure he knows what's inside.

"If you get near me with that thing—"

"I know. You'll kick my ass or whatever." Jess rolls her eyes. "It'd be fun, though," she adds wistfully.

*

Dinner is awkward, to say the least. Jess keeps trying to play footsie with Dean, and when that fails, she slips her shoe off and slides her foot up the inside of his thigh, her toes nudging the line of his cock. He accidentally lurches forward, spilling steaming hot coffee all over Sam's shirt.

"Fuck!" Sam yelps. He tries to pat himself dry with napkins, but his shirt's already soaked.

"That wasn't my fault, dude," Dean says. "Jess was..." but Sam rolls his eyes and tunes Dean out.

"Can we get the check, please?" he asks when the waitress comes by again, and Dean hands over his wallet without a fight.

*

Back at the motel, Sam mumbles something about a shower, and strips down in the bedroom while Dean's trying to distract himself by watching a _Golden Girls_ marathon. Fucking _great_. Now he and Jess probably think Dean's really hot for much older women (he isn't; fifteen years is his upper limit).

"Uh, okay, Dean. Whatever floats your boat, man." Sam picks up his coffee-stained shirt and heads for the bathroom. He really should just throw the thing out already—it's ugly as fuck, but Dean keeps his mouth shut about it, because Sam's pissed enough as it is.

"He can't stay mad at you for long," Jess assures him, and Dean snorts. It's bullshit—like Dad, Sam's the king of holding a grudge, even against Dean. After the Nair incident, he didn't talk to Dean for almost two months.

"Right," Dean says, flipping through the channels and landing on _Miss Congeniality_. Getting turned on by Sandra Bullock is better than getting turned on by Bea Arthur, though it's really neither of them—it's Sam and Jess.

Jess slides into bed next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. After what's happened the past few days, his instinct is to pull away, but she's warm and soft and letting her hand wander to the flat of his belly. Her scars are so much clearer up close, faded from angry red to dull pink and silvery-white, but he feels a pang of guilt in his belly every time he sees one of the marks littering her skin, constant reminder that Sam shouldn't have left Stanford, that they should've been there to stop the demon, that people they love get hurt, but it's over and done with and all Dean can do is say _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ until his throat goes hoarse, and try to keep them safe.

"I love this movie," she says. "'You think I'm gorgeous... You want to kiss me... You want to hug me... You want to love me—'"

He cuts her off with a kiss, hard and ruthless, because, yeah, he _does_ want to. She lets him take control, slide his tongue into her mouth. They make out while Gracie Hart or Gracie Lou Freebush or who the fuck _ever_ laughs at some overly-tanned guy about his feelings, and Dean cups Jess's tits, rubs her nipples through the cotton of her tank top. She moans, rocking down onto the thigh that he'd slipped between her legs. When his fingers drift to the elastic of her panties, though, she rolls away, fluffing her hair back up and straightening her top. "Kay," she says. "I'm gonna practice my shooting again." He knows it's not a metaphor, though he wishes it was. "If I'm not back in an hour, you should come find me."

"What the fuck?" Dean asks, but the only response he gets is the slam of the door. He rushes to the bathroom as soon as Sam's done (not nearly soon enough), and quickly peels out of his clothes. He jacks off in the shower, trying not to think about Jess, sinking down onto him, slow and steady, or about his goddamn baby brother begging to be fucked, even though they've already gotten each other off a few times, albeit with Jess encouraging them every step of the way. It doesn't work. He comes, biting back a moan, because Sam is still awake, but instead of the usual rush of pleasure, he just feels guilty.

*

He pulls a pillow over his head, trying not to watch or listen as Sam and Jess fuck on the other bed. Jess loves to talk (_Oh, fuck,_ and _yeah, come on, right there_, mixed in with _Sam_ and _God_ and _please_), and Sam's perfectly content to let her run her mouth. Dean gives in and glances over, the moonlight illuminating everything and shining on their skin, still tan from the California sun.

Jess, more and more in tune with him, catches Dean's eye, and says, "You can't join in until you--" but a sharp jerk of Sam's hips cuts her off. Her eyes stay locked on Dean's as she arches up, tension in her muscles evident even in the dark; just as her breathing starts to slow, Sam thrusts a few more times and buries himself deep inside her as he shudders.

*

"What the fuck was yesterday all about?" he asks as they roll their clothes and shove them into their duffels. "I'm the only one who's not allowed to get any?"

"Not exactly," Jess says. "You _know_ I want to fuck you. You'll give in eventually."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Like you said," she grins, "you're the only one not getting any."

*

He channels the frustration of not getting laid into hunting. They kill a group of witches in Danvers, take out a siren in Lyndon, waste a few demons in Boston. Trouble doesn't come until they run into a poltergeist that throws Dean down a couple flights of stairs. When he comes to, he can't move his neck. After x-rays and an MRI, the doctors tell him and Sam that "Jeremiah Wallace" is fine, save for a shoulder fracture, they all breathe easier, though Sam insists they take a few weeks off so Dean can rest up.

"We could have lost you," Jess says. She kisses him, cheeks wet and lips salty; her arms twine around his neck and stay there. Sam brings him soda and all the M&amp;M's he can eat, and he reads Jess's trashy tabloid magazines when neither of them are looking. To keep from going stir-crazy, he unpacks and repacks their bags, does the crossword puzzle and then hides it from Sam.

*

After he's healed, he drags Sam to a bar. They down enough shots to lower their inhibitions, but Dean knows his limits, knows just how drunk he can get before he loses the alertness that Dad had taught them.

"Jess wants you, you know," Sam says, and laughs even though it's not really funny. "Well, actually she wants a threesome, and not just one time. But she wants to fuck you."

"Did you guys ever..." Dean trails off, knows Sam will understand what he means.

"Uh, _yeah_," he answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, but softens his tone when he adds, "We were together for a year and a half before this, Dean. You..." he shifts in his seat, "...experiment."

"Yeah, but I have a perfectly good dick. Yours is debatable, but why do we need a fake one?"

Sam shrugs. "It feels good, man."

Dean can kind of see where Sam's coming from. He's had a few (okay, more than a few) girls work their fingers into him while they blew him, and it _did_ feel good, but why shove anything extra up there?

Of course, he spends half the night thinking about Sam fucking him open (first with his fingers, and then with his cock) while Jess sucks him off, so maybe he _does_ want it. Either way, he blames it on the alcohol.

*

He wakes up with a dry mouth and a headache, his body protesting the Jack he drank last night. When his fingers close around something hard and unforgiving instead of the bottle of Advil, he jerks away, instantly wide awake. He picks it up, cataloguing the weight of it in his hands, the smooth curves and rounded tip cool against his skin. It's not as big as he is, but it's not small, either, and he absent-mindedly thinks about what it'd feel like inside him. About Sam sitting on the other bed, watching; about Jess's nails digging into his hips as she moves.

It's not until he's got his hand down his pajama pants and is stroking lazily that he realizes how much he wants it.

Jess, always putting a stop to things just as they're getting good, bursts in with her laundry. "You come around to it yet?"

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat and says, "Actually, yeah."

*

Sam's on his knees behind Jess, kissing the back of her neck, sliding his hands up her narrow ribcage to cup her boobs. Dean doesn't touch him, except for accidental contact: the brush of his hand against Sam's every so often, the awkward press of their legs as they figure out how to get comfortable on the bed.

Jess pulls back, and Dean can't help but stare at the rise and fall of her chest. "I want," she says, and takes a big gulp of air before continuing, "I wanna see you guys kiss."

Sam's fists are clenched in Dean's shirt before he has time to react or think or do anything besides part his lips and let Sam's tongue slide into his mouth, slickrough and warm.

"God," she murmurs, and Sam laughs, the vibrations buzzing against Dean's lips like the roar of an engine.

"Like that?" His fingers brush over Dean's jaw, then down past the stubble to the smooth skin of his neck.

"Exactly like that. God, Sam, you're—_he's_—" she must not be able to think of the words, tells Sam with tongue and teeth instead, their own secret language that Dean hasn't figured out yet, not like the one he and Sam had when they were younger.

"How do we...?" he asks, because he can think of several different ways to do this, not all of them ideal. Jess answers with a clipped _on your knees_, and for once, he's glad she's almost as tall as him.

For all of Jess's eagerness to fuck Dean, she takes things incredibly slow, scissoring him open one slick finger at a time, twisting them until he feels like he's going to explode. "Come on," he says. "Thought you were so—" and that's when she slides into him, one smooth move that makes his breath catch in his chest. "_Fuck_." The toy feels bigger when it's in him than when it's in his hands, filling him up, and even with the slight burn flaring through his body, it feels really fucking _good_. Dean grits his teeth and says, "Harder," curling fingers into the bedspread and around Sam's bicep for leverage.

"Yeah, I can do that." Jess sounds so self-satisfied, though Dean can't really blame her. She locks her fingers with Sam's on Dean's hip, leaving crisscross marks that'll be purple bruises by morning. Her thrusts speed up, relentless and insistent as the pull of the ocean, nails leaving scratches down Dean's back. It's the kind of pain that stokes him higher, makes him want more, but when he pushes back against Jess, he slips out of Sam's grasp. He can't choke back Sam's name, but thank God it doesn't sound like a whine, or he'd never hear the end of it.

He comes harder than he has in a long time, curved tip of the dildo pressing at the spot that short-circuits his brain and lungs. Sam strokes him through it, firm, tight grip and steady rhythm, until the white-hot pleasure fades and it actually starts to _hurt_. "Dude," he says, and Sam nods, pulls back, reaches for a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table so Dean can clean himself up.

His vision's gone hazy at the edges, but he's vaguely aware of Sam easing Jess into his lap—always so careful with her—huge hands moving up and down her back as they fuck. She's kissing Sam's mouth and his jaw and his neck and if Dean wasn't so exhausted, he'd definitely be up for another round. Jess shudders, Sam's arms still wrapped around her, and he says something Dean can't make out before Sam's jerking against her, hips thrusting out of time as he comes.

"_Shit_," Jess breathes, shakes her sweaty hair from her eyes, and it's scary how much that reminds him of Sam.

"Yeah." Dean honestly isn't sure if Sam said it or he did (they've always been two halves of the same whole, finishing each other's sentences and never functioning quite right without each other; all that matters now is that they're safe and together and _alive_). He doesn't protest when Jess picks up his discarded boxers and uses them to wipe herself off before handing them to Sam. He can always get her back in the morning.


End file.
